Determined to Keep him Together
by mimithereader
Summary: A loud crash has John Stilinski out of his eat at the kitchen table and sprinting towards his son in mere seconds. He takes the stairs two at a time, his only thoughts centering on Stiles's well-being. A piercing scream has him rushing to the bathroom and the scene before him rips his heart in two. John takes only seconds to register everything that is happening.


A loud crash has John Stilinski out of his eat at the kitchen table and sprinting towards his son in mere seconds. He takes the stairs two at a time, his only thoughts centering on Stiles's well-being.

A piercing scream has him rushing to the bathroom and the scene before him rips his heart in two. John takes only seconds to register everything that is happening.

He takes in how Stiles is screaming – loud enough that a fleeting concern for the neighbors calling in a disturbance complaint crosses John's mind.

He takes in that everything that was once on the counter makes its way to the tile floor as Stiles grabs everything within his reach and hurls it with all his might.

He takes in the shattered bathroom mirror.

He takes in his son's torn knuckles, the blood that is running profusely down his arm.

It takes John only seconds.

He rushes forward, arms wrapping tightly around Stiles's slim waist, jerking him back almost roughly from the counter.

Stiles keeps struggling, his screams never stopping, and John has to momentarily release his locked arms around his son's waist to place a strong forearm across Stiles's chest in an attempt to pinion his son's flailing limbs.

Stiles's knees give in, refusing to support his weight any longer, and John allows himself to slide down the wall so they are both sitting on the cool floor of the bathroom. Stiles doesn't stop fighting and his father tries in vain to keep him in place, holding Stiles so his back is pressed firmly against John's chest. Stiles kicks out wildly, arms lashing out at everything – his father included – in a desperate attempt to free himself. John tries to turn Stiles to face him, hoping to calm him down, and Stiles strikes out with a fist to the underside of John's jaw. Ignoring the throbbing pain from the blow, John grabs his son's wrists and tugs him forward as Stiles continues to let out blood-curdling screams.

John quickly releases one of Stiles's wrists to wrap an arm around Stiles's shoulder and steadfastly press his son's head against his shoulder.

A scream dies in Stiles's throat as a sob breaks free. John doesn't hesitate to pull Stiles into his lap as he had done countless times when his son was much younger and would cry. John's amazed how easily Stiles still fits against him, head tucked under John's chin and legs curled up.

John rocks them back and forth, murmuring a constant stream of "you're okay, I'm right here, I'm not letting go, you're safe, I promise, I've got you." He cradles Stiles's bleeding palm to his chest, wraps in tightly in his sheriff uniform and applies pressure.

He wonders what Stiles is thinking as he presses kiss after kiss to his son's hair. He tries not to think of everything that's happened to get them here. He tries not to think about the way it feels like Stiles is wasting away in his arms.

John allows them to stay there on the floor until Stiles's sobbing quiets a little. The tears are still there, the hiccuping breaths are far from over, but John knows he needs to take care of Stile's hand that has yet to stop bleeding.

Shifting Stiles off of his lap and onto the floor next to him, John carefully stands up before reaching down and hauling Stiles up by his armpits. The fights gone out of Stiles and he lets his father guide him away from the destruction, down the hall, and into the master bathroom. Stiles sways on his feet, but his father's hands never leave him, ready to catch him at a moment's notice.

"Hop up, kiddo," John says, gesturing to his bathroom sink.

Stiles does as he's told, but _God_, it should not take him that much energy. Stiles isn't crying anymore, he just looks drained. He watches his dad with dead eyes as John takes out the tweezers, peroxide, and a towel. John delicately takes Stile's hand into his own and holds it palm up. There's a large, deep gash that is still letting out a steady stream of blood but, from what John can tell, there isn't any glass lodged in it.

"Hold this, kid," John places the towel in Stile's open hand and curls his son's long fingers around the cloth to staunch the bleeding. He doesn't miss the wince that crosses Stiles's face as the torn skin of his knuckles stretches so he can properly grip the towel. John picks up the tweezers and sets to picking shards of glass out of the backside of his son's torn up hand. It takes a while, but eventually he is able to remove all of the glass. He sets the tweezers aside and grabs the bottle of peroxide before reaching into a container sitting beside Stiles's thigh on the counter and taking out a couple of cotton balls. He opens the bottle and wets a cotton ball, setting the peroxide back down and reaching for Stiles's hand again. He takes the towel carefully and bends to catch Stiles's gaze.

"This is going to hurt, kid," John says slowly, making sure Stiles is prepared for the sting of the peroxide.

Stiles nods and John takes the go-ahead, gingerly pressing the cotton ball to the cut on Stiles's palm. John works carefully but quickly as he cleans the wound. He tries not to betray the way his heat splits as Stiles begins to cry again, tries not to show how his heart cracks a little bit more every time Stiles sniffles or chokes on his breath as he attempts to contain his sobs caused by the pain. By the time John's moved onto cleaning out the cuts on Stile's knuckles, a constant stream of tears are making their way down his son's cheeks and Stiles has leaned forward to rest his forehead against his father's shoulder.

John doesn't want to, but he forces himself to pull away and rummage around for Band-Aids. He ends up using eleven of them and he knows the cut on Stiles's palm is probably deep enough to warrant stitches but he can't bring himself to drag Stiles to the emergency room. Not when he sees how dead-tired his son looks, the way exhaustion seems to be settled into his bones. So he uses eleven Band-Aids and hopes it will be good enough until tomorrow.

He helps Stiles off the counter, catching his weight when Stiles's knees buckle, and ushers him into the bedroom. He rifles through his own dresser, grabbing the grey Adidas shirt Stiles always steals. He holds the shirt out to Stiles, but when Stiles stares dazedly at the proffered item without reaching for it, John knows it is not going to be that simple.

He steps closer and pulls up the hem of Stiles's shirt, gently maneuvering his arms through the holes to get the bloody top off of him. John tries not to notice how skinny Stiles has become in the past weeks, tries not to notice the way he can count his son's ribs, the almost concave appearance of his son's stomach, the too-sharp jut of his son's hipbones. He pulls the Adidas shirt over Stiles's head, pulling his arms through the holes with no help from Stiles.

"Stiles?"

Stiles seems to come back to the present situation, enough to attempt to shed himself of his own jeans. His hands are shaking so severely though that John pushes his hands aside and deftly undoes the button on Stiles's jeans, tugging the zipper down, and helping Stiles step out of them.

He takes Stiles by the elbow and leads him over to John's bed. He pulls the blankets back for Stiles to crawl under before tucking him in tightly and leaning down to kiss Stiles on the forehead.

John turns off the bedroom light, ready to head downstairs to finish some paperwork before calling it a night, too, when he hear Stiles's small voice call out to him.

"Daddy?"

John stops dead in his tracks. Stiles hasn't called him 'daddy' in years. After his mom died and Stiles had had to move in with the McCall's because of his father's drinking, Stiles had stuck strictly to 'dad'.

"Can you stay?"

And there isn't a damn thing in the world that could get John to leave his kid's side when he was sounding so small and looking up at him with those innocent doe eyes that held such vulnerability. Paperwork be damned.

John walked over to the bed and got in the other side, propping himself up against the headboard. Stiles rolls over onto his side to look at his father. John reaches down and grabs Stiles's uninjured hand.

"Did I ever tell you about the time a guy in my platoon shot the helmet right of the sergeant's head?"

Stiles shook his head, looking up eagerly at his dad. John didn't usually talk about his time in the army.

John tells Stiles three stories, Stiles hanging on his every word, before deciding to tell one he hoped might be just boring enough to lull his kid into some much-needed sleep.

Eventually, Stiles does drift off, but probably more to the credit of exhaustion rather than disinterest. John watches the steady rise and fall of his son's chest and once he's really sure that Stiles is asleep he carefully disentangles their hands and heads downstairs to double-check that the front door is locked.

John makes his way back upstairs and stops briefly outside the bathroom Stiles had destroyed earlier before deciding that clean-up could wait until the morning. He heads toward his bedroom and is about to flip off the hall light when he hears Stiles.

"I killed her."

John rushes into his bedroom and sees his son sitting up against the headboard with his knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped protectively around his legs.

"Stiles," John says cautiously, stopping by the foot of the bed, not quite sure what his son was talking about.

"I killed her, dad. Allison's dead because of me."

And there it is.

John moves swiftly to his son's side of the bed and settles on the edge of it, reaching out to put his hands on Stile's knees.

"No, no, sweetheart. _No_," John says firmly, but hoping to still sound comforting.

"Scott must hate me."

And John knows that isn't true – isn't even remotely possible, honestly. It'll never be true, John's sure of that.

"No he doesn't, Stiles."

Stiles shakes his head before responding, "he _loved_ her, dad."

"He loves you, too, baby."

And John's sure of that. He completely believes with everything he has that Scott loves Stiles more than anyone else besides himself. John _knows_ that Scott would do anything for his son, that if John were to call him right now – at 2:30 A.M. – that Scott would answer and be over here in a heartbeat to comfort his best friend. But John won't do that, because even though he knows Scott wouldn't mind, that Scott views Stiles as a little brother that he wants to protect, Scott is still a kid himself, and he's going through a hell of a time right now.

"Oh God _Aiden_!" John had heard what happened, of course, and while John had anticipated the overbearing guilt of Allison's death to weigh heavily upon his son, he didn't quite expect it for Aiden. "Lydia loved him. And Allison was her best friends and oh my god I - "

"Didn't do anything. Stiles, you are NOT responsible for that. For any of that."

"But - "

"Stiles. That. Was. Not. You," John said resolutely, carefully emphasizing each word.

Stiles hung his head, refusing eye contact.

"If Chris had just shot me when he had the chance his _daughter_ wouldn't be _dead_, dad! How is that not my fault?"

John gripped Stiles's chin tightly, just shy of painfully, and forced his son to look at him.

"You can't do this to yourself, Stiles. Chris doesn't blame you. Don't look at me like that, he doesn't. If he had shot you, _you_ would be the one dead."

"Maybe that would be best."

And god, John's heart cannot take anymore. He cannot take the way his son's eyes are shining with unshed tears. He cannot take the way his son's voice breaks when he talks. He cannot take the way Stiles is hurting enough, feels guilty enough, that he believes everyone might be better off he were dead.

But John won't let that happen.

Shaking off the initial shock of Stiles's words, John pulls him forward into a bone-crushing hug, not loosening his grip until Stiles's sobs subside. John moves Stiles over on the bed enough so he can lay down himself. He maneuvers the blankets over the both of them and tugs Stiles against his side. Stiles allows himself to be moved and rests his head against his dad's chest, his good hand twisting John's shirt while his other hand lay cradled between them.

"I love you, daddy."

"I love you, too, Świętoslaw," John said before kissing the crown of his son's head and drawing him a little closer. "I love you, too."

And yes, it still felt a little like Stiles might be falling apart in John's arms, but John was determined to keep him together.


End file.
